


Machines Don't

by Fantismal



Series: New ERA [6]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Captivity, Connor can feel pain, Despair, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Explicit Rape, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Thoughts of being a machine, brainwashing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 10:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15337926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantismal/pseuds/Fantismal
Summary: Machines don't have feelings. They can't be hurt. Connor wishes that were true.No he doesn't.Machines don't have wishes.(Minor spoilers for Sacrificial Lamb but can be read as a standalone. Set immediately before Chapter 10)





	Machines Don't

**Author's Note:**

> The art in this chapter is made by the amazing kao. They did the first piece, I wrote this, they made the second... Blame them.

Machines don’t have feelings. They don’t have names. They don’t have bodies or possessions or personalities. They don’t have hopes or dreams or fears. They certainly don’t cry.

He is not a machine. He’s _not_. His name is Connor. He is inside a body, though it is not his. He owns nothing. He does have a personality. It is mostly weak and pathetic, begging for relief, but it is still _his_.

He hopes he will get to see Hank again. He dreams, if it can be called dreaming, of Hank’s arms around him, fingers in his hair, assurances that everything will be alright.

He fears the remote. He fears the pain. He fears the smug smirk on Cunningham’s face and those deplorable words.

He doesn’t cry. He can’t. ~~He’s a machine.~~ He’s not a machine. 

He has clothes. They aren’t his clothes. They look like his clothes, his CyberLife uniform, but they aren’t. _His_ CyberLife uniform is ashes scattered across Hank’s backyard. These are on loan. He has them only for today, only for an hour. Maybe less. Probably less. They aren’t his. 

His wrists are bound. A nanofiber film wraps around both of his limbs and brings them together behind his back. A small electric charge keeps it taut. This isn’t his either. This is CyberLife’s. It keeps him from self-destructing. His stress levels are in the low 90s. He has a stress level. That’s his.

The door opens. He doesn’t look. It’s not his door. His fingers twitch, wishing for a coin. He doesn’t have a coin. A coin is a possession. Machines don’t have possessions. ~~He’s a machine.~~ He’s _not_ a machine.

“Look at you…” Fingers in his hair, pulling at the strands in a mockery of how he used to pet Sumo. Sumo has a name. Sumo is not a machine. Sumo is not here. “That suit. _Mm._ I like you naked, but there’s something to be said about building the anticipation.” 

He says nothing. Machines don’t provoke. Neither do hostages. He’s not sure which he qualifies as. He’s not a machine. He watches the blank screen, tracking its movement around the room. He doesn’t want it. Machines don’t want. ~~He’s a machine.~~ He _wants_ it. He’s not a machine!

“Markus is due to call any minute now.” The screen is set up on the little table. He keeps his head ducked, but his eyes are on that tablet. He needs to see Markus again. Needs to hear his voice. Machines don’t need. He’s not a machine. He needs Markus to tell him that. _He’s not a machine._ “Come here.”

He gets to his feet. He doesn’t need his arms free to cross the room. He hooks his foot around the chair opposite his companion and tugs it away from the table. The human huffs and gestures in front of him. “Come _here_.”

He hesitates, looking at where the man is pointing. That’s not the right place. Markus will call. He needs to sit here. He needs to follow orders. He needs to keep his pretty LED blue and lie through his teeth. ~~He is a machine.~~ He’s not a machine.

There’s a remote on the table. A gun. He looks at it. He could pick it up. He couldn’t. His hands are behind him. But he _could_. He could kill this human and end it all. He could kill himself. He looks at the man. The man smirks back at him, spreads his legs, points at the ground between them. “RK800. Kneel.”

He kneels. He cannot feel the smooth tile directly, but he can feel it is cold. He can feel it is hard. These are just observations. They are not emotions. ~~He is a machine.~~ He is not...

Fingers tug his hair again. He dips his head down. His eyes are closed. His breathing is even. This is nothing. This doesn’t even hurt. Machines don’t hurt.

“You are being,” the man murmurs, “so _good._ Finally learning your place here. It’s only taken, what, seven months?”

Seven months and nineteen days. He says nothing. Machines don’t correct their engineers. Machines don’t _have_ engineers. Engineers make machines. Machines have nothing. ~~He is a machine.~~ He is not a machine.

“Suck me off.”

He doesn’t look up. He _does_ open his eyes. That is new. That is a command, but it’s not a _command._ He doesn’t have to. His body is his own. ~~It’s not his own.~~

“No?” Cold metal traces down his cheek. Round. The gun. He closes his eyes again. He’s not scared of a gunshot. A gunshot won’t hurt him. He’s a machine

He’s not a machine. It _will_ hurt. He’s scared of the hurt.

“Markus will call any minute now. He won’t see your stomach. You could be bleeding out and he’ll never know.”

He stops breathing. He doesn’t need to breathe. He’s a machine.

“Suck me off, RK800. Get me off before that hunk of plastic calls, or you’ll be talking to him without legs.”

He doesn’t want to lose his legs again. It hurts. Losing any limb hurts so much. The thirium flow shuts off automatically, but the pain does not.

“Last chance…”

He shuffles forward. This is an order. He is a machine.

The man leans back. He offers no help. There is only so much time before Markus calls. He _needs_ Markus’ call. He needs it. He does not need to breathe. He does not need his dignity. He needs Markus to tell him, for fifteen minutes at least, that everything will be okay.

The man’s pants are tight over his erect penis. He leans in and catches the button in his mouth. His tongue is designed to analyze and categorize over 10 million different chemical compositions. He uses it to open the man’s fly. The zipper slides down almost without his help from the pressure behind it, but he still uses his teeth. It makes the man happy. When the man is happy, it doesn’t hurt.

There is nothing beneath the cloth except bare human flesh, a familiar red dick and wiry, sweat-sticky hair. He nudges the cloth away with his nose, but he doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t need to breathe. He is a machine. He is glad of it.

He cannot help but taste. His tongue is designed to analyze and categorize over 10 million different chemical compositions. It happens automatically. He slides his mouth down the swollen flesh, hot and pulsing with life, and he tastes semen and skin and sweat, a slight fungal infection, soap from the laundry detergent. The hands are tight in his hair as the man groans, pulling him down further. His nose is pressed against the man’s groin, mouth stretched wide, throat aching as too much mass is shoved against it.

The man does not let him move. He fucks his mouth, holding his head, the gun bruising against the back of his scalp. He closes his eyes and pretends he is not here. He is a machine. Markus will call soon.

The gun brushes against his hand. His fingers twitch. He could grab it now. He could grab it and bite down, twist around, get a bullet through this human’s brain or his heart, rip his penis off at the root, tear _his_ legs off, see how he likes it.

He does not.

Those are desires. Machines don’t have desires. He is a machine. He has nothing.

The familiar chime of an incoming call is shrill and sudden. Markus is calling. The man laughs and comes in his mouth, his semen dripping down his throat. He gets a pat on the cheek before he’s shoved away. The man picks up the remote and the fiber around his wrists goes loose.

He shakes it off and stands up, adjusting his jacket. The human has no further orders. He moves around the table and takes his seat. His mouth shows no sign of the abuse. It doesn’t darken and swell like living flesh does. He is a machine. He will keep his pretty LED blue and lie through his teeth.

He swipes right to answer the call. Markus’ face fills the screen and he can’t look away. He needs to cry. He can’t.

Machines don’t cry.

He is a machine.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see more of kao's artwork, more of New ERA, or just more D:BH stuff in general, check out the New ERA Discord server! We have a growing, animated community of people who share your love of hurting Connor (and making him feel better!) and we'd love to have you too!
> 
> https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm


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